Blade of Fortriu

by Juliet Marillier

  As for the mysterious Drustan, he had not made an appearance. Faolan thought of certain men he had seen in the Uí Néill prison, men who had been as desperate for freedom as he, yet who would not contemplate the prospect of escape; men for whom the cruelty and degradation, the grinding daily routine had become, somehow, a safer prospect than the terrifying dream of the outside world with its multiplicity of choices. Prison could do that to a man. If he stayed there long enough, the place could rob him of his judgment, so that liberty became a thing to be feared, too wondrous and too difficult to be given credence even when the way was open. Such men stood at the door looking out on sun and green fields and wild mountains, then retreated into their dark cave. Faolan had seen the panic in Drustan’s eyes as he faced the prospect of leaving his enclosure; of leaving Briar Wood forever. Seven years was a long time.

  He’d better not hesitate much longer. Chances were the alarm had already been raised. No doubt Alpin would search every corner once he found Ana’s chamber empty. Faolan and Deord would be marked men. And Drustan, if he lingered, would bear the brunt of his brother’s first fury. Faolan could not bring himself to wish the bird-man would join them, for all that. Following Deord down the slope to a shallow stream, grimly wading in to walk in the other man’s steps—with luck this would put the dogs off their scent—he was seeing in his mind Drustan’s hands on Ana’s body, Drustan’s lips pressed to her golden hair; he was hearing Ana’s defiant voice: “I’m not going.” It was ridiculous, impossible. The man might not be crazy, but he was—he was what he was, an oddity, one of a kind, and the farther away from him they traveled the happier Faolan would be. It wasn’t that he wished Drustan ill. He just hoped the fellow would fly away in the opposite direction, home to his estates in the west. Faolan glanced skyward through the green canopy of the spreading oaks.

  “No sign,” Deord said, pausing to shift Ana’s weight on his broad shoulders. Her hair, which they had tucked into the cloak, was coming loose now; the long locks dipped into the stream, pale as summer wheat. The guard was calm as ever, but there was a bleakness in his eyes.

  “It’s his choice.” Faolan came up behind him, reaching to help the other man. He gathered Ana’s hair and stuffed the strands as best he could under the cloak fastening. “He wanted, you to do this. And he’s a grown man.”

  “We need him,” Deord said. “Alpin has the advantage unless we can find paths he doesn’t know. Pray that Drustan reaches us before his brother does. Are you done?”

  “Mm,” grunted Faolan. It was his ill luck, he thought as they splashed on up the stream, that where Drustan’s hands had stroked and caressed those silken strands, his own were limited to bundling them out of the way with clumsy speed. Ana was ill-dressed for this venture; the borrowed tunic and trousers of their outward journey had been far more suitable. He must try to obtain things for her on the way; borrow or steal from farm or settlement. She couldn’t run in a wedding dress. And the nights were cold. To offer to keep her warm as before, with his own body, now seemed unthinkable.

  Deord was out of the water, starting to climb a wooded slope where oak gave way to silvery birch. Small birds were darting about up above, calling to one another in chattering voices. Fragments of bark or twig, dislodged by their activity, fell to the forest floor by the men’s feet. Something rustled in the undergrowth; only a creature foraging. Then, from a distance, came a new sound: the baying of hunting hounds. Deord paused, looking back at Faolan. “It might need to be back in the water,” he said. “Can you swim?”

  “If I have to. I can’t speak for Ana.”

  “Where’s Drustan when we need him?” muttered Deord as they moved across the rise, finding a place where they could scramble up supporting Ana between them. By the time they reached the top the wedding dress was more mud-brown than cream. Her hair was loose again and catching in everything. Deord took his knife from his belt and, with three swift, expert slashes, cut the long fair locks off level with her shoulders. Faolan was speechless.

  “Put this in your pack,” Deord said. “We may not outrun the dogs, but we can at least avoid laying a trail for them. Don’t just stand there, do it. Now come on. Pick up the pace.”

  They ran. Deord found ways Faolan could barely see, muddy channels overgrown with clinging foliage, narrow divides between great stones, precipitous tracks more suited to goats than men. They picked paths across stepping stones and, where there were none, waded knee deep through gushing streams. They squelched across boggy hollows and balanced on tenuous log bridges. Deord had not been joking when he ordered a faster pace: even with Ana on his shoulders, his speed and endurance were formidable. Faolan closed his mind to distractions and concentrated on keeping up.

  They reached the shore of an isolated lochan, beyond which sheer slopes rose to a formidable line of peaks. Their crowns were pale, bare stone; they seemed as implacable as a brotherhood of ancient gods. On the near side, the lake was fringed by pines; the water sparkled in the sunlight. Not far from where the two men had emerged from the trees, a high waterfall tumbled in a graceful ribbon of white to spill across stones to the lochan. The roaring of the fall did not quite drown the insistent voices of Alpin’s hounds; they were closing fast, no doubt followed by men on horseback.

  Picking a way along the stony shore would be too slow. Where a man could go, a dog could follow; besides, any track around this expanse of water was destined to end in a slope too steep to be climbed. The lake lay in a deep bowl of rock, with only one approach: the way they had come. The way Alpin was coming.

  “Now where can a man go that a dog can’t?” muttered Deord.

  There was a moment’s pause, punctuated by a moan from Ana. The two men looked at each other. Together, they turned to the waterfall.

  “Halfway up a cliff,” Faolan said as the bray of a hunting horn sounded in the forest behind them. “Or better still, halfway up a cliff and underwater.” The two of them began to run. “By all that’s holy … if this story ever gets told there’ll be two madmen in it, and neither of them will be Drustan …”

  “Save your breath,” grunted Deord.

  Ana was regaining consciousness; she was making weak attempts to struggle and groaning as if her head were on fire. Deord clamped his arms firmly around her knees and back as she lay across his shoulders. Pretty soon, Faolan thought, it wouldn’t matter how much noise she made. By the sound of that barking, the hounds would have them in sight before a man could count to five times fifty.

  They fought their way over stones and through thick grasses. The noise of the waterfall was deafening; its voice sang a powerful challenge: Don’t meddle with me! At the base was a pool and, for all the remoteness of the place, offerings had been tied to the bushes there, strips of linen, tattered ribbons, fraying lengths of wool. Who would not wish to placate whatever savage deity claimed this violent flow of water as its own? Faolan shivered. The memory of Breaking Ford stirred in his blood. For Ana’s own sake, he prayed she would remain oblivious yet a while.

  “Up,” said Deord. “Up and under cover before they come out into the open. Here, take her.”

  Faolan looked upward. High on the cliff, partly obscured by a swirling mist of water droplets, he could see birds flying in and out; there was, perhaps, a cave or hollow behind the plunging torrent. The way up was precipitous, the rocks slick and moss-coated. He could hardly refuse to carry Ana in his turn. But up there? What did Deord think he was, a squirrel?

  “Quick! Go!” Deord eased Ana’s body onto his companion’s back. Faolan raised his arms to hold her steady; how was he going to climb? “I’ll help you up the first bit,” Deord said. “Hold her with one hand, climb with the other. You can do it.”

  It seemed impossible. Faolan gritted his teeth, adjusted Ana’s limp form to lie across one shoulder, her head hanging down behind, and began a slow ascent. It was insane. The whole day was insane. There was one moment when his foot slipped and his weight and hers skewed sideways, leaving him teetering over the pr
ecipice, water gushing, his heart pounding. Deord’s hand came from behind, balancing Ana and correcting Faolan’s own position in one sure push. They reached a ledge and Faolan drew breath.

  “Go on,” Deord shouted over the roaring of the falls. “Up there. Should be a cave. Hide and wait.”

  “Till they starve us out?” Faolan joked grimly, peering upward and trying to convince himself he could see a cave somewhere beyond the mass of flying water.

  “No need for that.” Deord had let go and was heading back down. “I’ll lead them astray; give the dogs a different scent. If I’m not back by sundown, go on without me. My advice would be to head on up and look for a track across those hills.”

  “What—” It was suicide. The fellow was completely crazy.

  “Go on, Faolan.” Deord looked back, his eyes steady, his expression calm. “Without this, we’ll be stuck here like rats in a trap while they wait for us to give up. Now get up there before they see you. You can do it Look after her well, bard. And give Drustan my greeting, if he comes.”

  Faolan was dumbstruck. Before he could summon a response, Deord had disappeared down the cliff, and it was too late to say thank you, or farewell, or anything at all.

  Faolan executed the remaining climb almost unaware of what he was doing. He had no room in him for fear of falling, or for anything save the automatic adjustment of balance or grip or position that would move him upward without dropping Ana or losing his hold. He did not look down. He did not look to see what Deord was doing, nor did he listen for hounds or horses or men out hunting. At a certain point, considerably higher, there was a broader ledge that curved around into a deep hollow beneath a sharp overhang. The water fell across this jutting stone, and the cave beneath was filled with the sound of its falling. The space was rock floored and not entirely wet. Within, Faolan looked out on the white sheet of descending water, sunlit from beyond. The voice of the falls was deafening. He lowered Ana to the ground, wincing at the pain in his back, his knees, his abraded hands. The light in the cave was ghostly, a pale gleam through moving water, it turned Ana’s wan features sickly white. She was stirring; shivering. Her gown was soaked, his own clothing no drier. He went through what practical steps he could: undoing his pack, looking for something warm and dry—what had Deord put in here, a cloak? Ah, a tightly folded blanket—and wrapping her in it. He made sure she was positioned safely so she would not roll straight over the edge if she woke confused and afraid. All the time the image of Deord was in his mind, Deord going back down, Deord hunted through the forest, Deord, in effect, giving himself up so they could be safe. Why? The man hardly knew them. The Breakstone code stopped short of demanding such sacrifice. He shouldn’t have let Deord go; he should have insisted … But then they would all have been taken; even Ana. Perhaps Deord knew what he was doing. Wait until sundown, he’d said. Sundown was still a long way off. They could have done with some help. Where in the name of all the gods was Drustan?

  As if in answer to the unspoken question, a small, neat form appeared, flying in through the curtains of water to land, shaking the droplets from its red feathers, on a protruding stone. Not the hawklike creature they needed; only the crossbill. Faolan glanced at it inimically.

  “Faolan?” Ana’s voice was weak, but he heard her through the water’s powerful music. “Faolan, where are we?”

  As simply and clearly as he could he explained, while Ana sat with pinched features and shadowed eyes, huddled in the blanket. He did not tell her how much it had hurt that she had believed he would betray Bridei. He did not speak of that at all, only of the treaty scorned and the need to get away before she was committed to her mockery of a marriage. He apologized for rendering her unconscious. He explained that Deord had helped them, and that now Deord was gone.

  “Why do you look like that, Faolan?”

  “Like what?” He was squatting close to her, keeping an eye on her, for the shadow of drug-dreams still haunted her eyes, and he feared she might make a sudden bolt for freedom. Here, nowhere was safe; the cave itself was the best refuge they had. In front of them, where the water hid them, was a fall to sudden death. Outside on the cliff they would be in full view of Alpin’s men when they emerged from the trees. They might be in range of his arrows.

  “As if you could feel Bone Mother’s cold breath,” she said.

  “I …” He hesitated, disturbed that she could read him so easily. “I can’t see how Deord could survive it,” he said, knowing she would want the truth. “Alpin’s out there with hunting dogs. One man, however able, is not going to outrun his hounds and his mounted warriors. Eventually they must take him. Then they’ll kill him or they’ll try to extract information from him, which in the long run is the same thing. Why would he do it?”

  He expected no answer and Ana did not offer one. She had her head bent now, her shoulders slumped in defeat. The crossbill flew from its perch to alight on her shoulder, and she started violently. “Oh!” She glanced around the cave as if there were ghosts in its corners. One hand released its clutch on the blanket and came up to stroke the little bird; this seemed to calm her. All the same, Faolan maintained his watch on her. In this state, it seemed to him she might do anything.

  “I’m sorry about your hair,” he said. “Deord cut it. I couldn’t stop him.”

  Ana’s fingers moved from the bird to the ragged ends of her shorn crop. She barely seemed to register the assault on her beauty. “Faolan, I need to go back,” she said, staring at the curtain of rushing water as if she would indeed leap out that way if it were her only choice. “I had such dreams … such cruel dreams … When I woke up, and we were here, I thought maybe …”

  “What?” he asked quietly.

  “I—I thought maybe it was all a dream; that perhaps we were still in the days after the ford … Out here, sheltering where we could, and everything wet … I saw so much death, death and blood and cruelty … I can’t seem to remember what is dream and what is real, Faolan. It scares me”

  “It’s the draught Deord gave you. It does that. The confusion will go away as the effect wears off.”

  “Why did Deord … Oh. Oh, yes, I remember. I wouldn’t … and you killed a guard … Faolan?”

  “What?” Now she would ask, and he must swallow the hurt and find an answer.

  “I can’t go with you,” she said flatly.

  “Why not? Because you believe I would stab the king of Fortriu in the back?”

  “No, I … Maybe for a moment I believed it. You did say it was true.”

  “You must have a very low opinion of me if you would so readily believe me a traitor.” He could hear the tight sound of his own voice.

  There was a pause, then Ana said, “I dismissed the thought almost as soon as it came to me, Faolan. I’m sure you have a good explanation for what you said.” She was holding the crossbill between her hands now; Faolan wondered if Drustan could feel it when her fingers caressed his creatures thus. Of him, she had asked nothing at all.

  “Bridei knows all about the work I do for Gabhran of Dalriada,” he said. “Gabhran, on the other hand, is not aware that I am Bridei’s man. To refuse Gabhran’s payment would be to arouse his suspicion. It’s been a useful arrangement for Fortriu. Now that Alpin’s found me out, it will have to cease.”

  Ana regarded him gravely; her look was more like that he was accustomed to from old, and made his heart beat more steadily. “I understand,” she said. “The need for such subterfuge and dishonesty is unfortunate, but my own position has made me all too aware of the games that must be played by kings and their powerful advisers. I would not want such an occupation as yours, Faolan. Bridei asks a great deal of you.”

  She had surprised him again. “And of you,” he said. “What did you mean, you must go back? You can’t be telling me you’d still consider marrying Alpin? After this?”

  “I thought … I thought I could go back alone. I can tell him you abducted me. It’s the truth. You can go home to White Hill. I need to be at Bri
ar Wood, Faolan. I told you before. I meant what I said.” A wave of shivering passed through her. The skirt of her gown was dark with water; she must be freezing. The blanket she already wore was the only dry thing he could give her. If he couldn’t do better, she’d die of a chill before they got as far as the borders of Alpin’s land. Curse the Caitt. Curse this place.

  A dark thought came to him. If he lied to her, he could make her give up this mad idea. All he had to say was that Drustan had decided not to join them; that he had bid Faolan take Ana home, and had chosen to fly off to his holdings in the west when freedom was offered. No, not fly, he could not say that. Drustan had bound him not to tell her that particular truth and he would honor his promise. But if he could persuade Ana that the bird-man preferred to enjoy his newfound freedom alone, she’d have no reason to rush off on some ill-conceived rescue mission. It might even be true. If Drustan had intended to come after them, why wasn’t he here? It did look as if the fellow had turned his back on her. If this had been another woman, that is what Faolan would have told her.

  “Faolan?” Ana was regarding him closely; he’d been silent a while. “You understand, don’t you? I can’t leave Drustan. If Deord has abandoned him, he’s all alone now. Drustan won’t leave Briar Wood. He’s convinced he’ll harm someone if he is set free. He has nobody, Faolan. Can you imagine how that feels?”

  He heard the change in her voice when she spoke Drustan’s name; saw how she lifted the bird to touch its bright plumage to her cheek. At that moment he felt a murderous hate for Drustan. But he could not hate Ana. “Deord only left because Drustan told him he should,” he said. “Both Deord and I tried to get him to come with us. He seemed to be finding it difficult to make up his mind. He said he would come later. He’s not so much of a fool that he would have stayed to face his brother’s wrath alone, surely. If you went back you’d walk straight into Alpin’s arms. Into Alpin’s bed. If that’s what you really want I’ve seriously misjudged you.” It was crude, maybe; he had to shock her out of this somehow. “All for nothing, if Drustan is already gone.” There was no point in enumerating the other reasons why her scheme was foolish and ridiculous: that her clothing was wet, that she did not know the way, that it was late in the day. That the terrain had been a challenge even for Deord. He knew she would take no heed of such arguments.